


Perfectly Normal Croquet

by laziestgirlintown



Category: Cabin Pressure, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: CabinPotterlock, Cabinlock, Croquet, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Potterlock, crossover AU, magical au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:46:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laziestgirlintown/pseuds/laziestgirlintown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people from Baker Street, some people from Fitton, some people who went to Hogwarts, and a Perfectly Normal game of croquet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfectly Normal Croquet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1electricpirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1electricpirate/gifts), [EventHorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/gifts).



> This little croquet match is sort of fanfic of fanfic, inspired by two awesome crossovers: 1electricpirate's Potterlock [More Things Than Are Dreamt Of](http://archiveofourown.org/series/23063), and EventHorizon's Cabinlock [Lets You Know You're Alive](http://archiveofourown.org/series/32637). This, then, is Cabinpotterlock.
> 
> I've used the Swedish croquet rules I grew up with. It seems to be a lot like American 9-wicket croquet with the ”poison” play option, except that the ball that's cleared all the hoops isn't called rover or poison but ”freebooter”, and is _required_ to roquet all opponents once before hitting the finishing stake to win. Also the centre hoop is a double hoop called the Crown or the Church. I hope my lovely beta reader ayelemjoh is right in that it's perfectly enjoyable even if you're not familiar with the rules :)

“Doctor Watson, hello!”

“Morning, Arthur. Lovely weather you’ve ordered.”

“Isn’t it brilliant? I wish I had ordered it, and if I did that I remembered how I did it. Then I’d be able to order this kind of weather every time I wanted to play croquet. Unless I wanted to invent Rain Croquet! It could have canals as well as hoops!”

“Would the balls float down the canals or is the idea to avoid them?”

“And Mister Sherlock, hello! That is a very good question. I think I would have to experiment. So it would be brilliant if I actually could make it rain, so that I could experiment on days when we aren’t flying, whatever the weather was originally going to be.”

“Don’t start trying to do that today, though.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t! We’re playing Perfectly Normal Croquet today, and that’s one of the ones that’s done best in sunshine.”

Sherlock heard the upper cases and tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “How many types of croquet do you have?”

  
“Oh, so many!” Arthur Shappey replied. “Well, depending on what you compare with. But about twenty or so, so a little more than my types of chess but a lot less than my card games.”

  
“Do you have them written down? I would love to read them.”

  
“Oh, _them_ you want to read?” John laughed incredulously. “When I had to sit on you to make you listen to a _simplified_ version of the perfectly normal rules so you could be an informed cheering section?”

  
Sherlock was blushing only ever so slightly, hardly at all, when he rebutted: “First of all, I would have cheered for you exactly the same amount without knowing the rules, and second of all I’ll have you know that to make room for the rules for croquet I deleted the rules for rugby.”

  
“Bluff,” John proclaimed confidently, “you wouldn’t.”

  
Sherlock turned to John and held his gaze intently, and John’s confident grin faded. “You did. I thought you …” He straightened out his face, his eyes not leaving Sherlock’s. “I was under the impression that you didn’t mind watching me play rugby. In fact circumstantial evidence might suggest you found it … invigorating.”

  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows nonchalantly and looked away, towards the croquet lawn. “I have however also found that knowing the rules makes no difference as to my enjoyment of watching you play.” He blinked. “I mean, watching a match.”

  
John grinned again. “All right, I can work with that.”

  
“I know what you mean,” Arthur said, “I’ve never really understood the rules of rugby myself, but if I make up my own rules while I’m watching it can be really fun!”

  
“That’s something like what I do,” Sherlock smirked, and possibly John blushed ever so slightly, but hardly at all.

  
“Oh, and I just remembered, Mister Sherlock,” Arthur continued. “I wonder if I could ask you a rather big favour.”

  
“You could certainly ask, Arthur.”

  
“Well, I was thinking, I would really love to cheer for Doctor Watson in the match, since he’s my friend and he’s brilliant and everything.”

  
“Understandable.”

  
“But since I’m also playing, and since as it’s Perfectly Normal Croquet only one of us can win, that would mean I would in effect be cheering against myself. And even though I don’t want to beat Doctor Watson or the other players I rather do want to win, since that is the point of Perfectly Normal Croquet and there would be no point in playing unless you were playing according to the point of the game.”

  
“I don’t think you need to worry, Arthur; I ordered Sherlock here to cheer for me but I’m sure he’ll cheer for you too, even without being asked to.”

  
“Don’t be dense, John, that’s not what he’s asking. He’s asking me to cheer for you on his behalf as well as on my own.”

  
“Yes. That is, in fact, what I was in fact wondering if you could possibly find the opportunity to maybe do a little bit if you have the time, if you wouldn’t mind and if it’s all right if I ask.”

  
“Arthur, how about if I will cheer for John on your behalf and for you on John’s behalf, and I will cheer for both of you on my own behalf. Albeit for John only because he ordered me to.”

  
“Bluff,” John murmured, with a smile that grew to a grin at a tiny confirming glance from Sherlock, while Arthur exclaimed:

  
“BRILLIANT! Now one of us is sure to win!”

  
“Well, light of my life, one of you is certain to come third, and the other fourth; I’m sure that’s what you meant.”

  
“Mum! Look, Doctor Watson and Mister Sherlock are here!”

  
“Yes, Arthur, I do see that. Welcome to Fitton, gentlemen.”

  
Sherlock bent his neck slightly. “Mrs Shappey.”

  
“Thanks, Carolyn. The lawn looks great,” John said.

  
“It should, Arthur’s been clipping it for days.”

  
“I have!” Arthur nodded enthusiastically. “I talked to the park people and they let me! I wanted to make it the best croquet lawn ever for today. We’re very honoured to get to play in one of these matches.”

  
“Yes, you are,” Carolyn agreed.

  
“Mum and her friend play each other every year,” Arthur explained, “but every now and then they make it a game of four ‘for the extra satisfaction,’ so Mum said, and this year they chose us! Because I told her we talked about games and you said you played croquet, Doctor Watson. Aren’t we lucky?”

 

“Very lucky, Arthur,” John said and smiled as he saw the fourth player striding towards them.

  
“Gentlemen,” Carolyn said, “may I introduce my old school chum, lately Headmaster, Professor McGonagall.”

  
John’s smile grew as he inclined his head and then looked back up. “Hullo, Minerva.”

  
Sherlock bowed slightly more noticeably. “Professor McGonagall, a pleasure to meet you again.”

  
Minerva McGonagall stopped calmly as she joined the group, ignoring Carolyn staring at John and Sherlock. “John, Mister Holmes. I do hope we’re not playing both of you. Intricacy is interesting but only up to a certain point.”

  
“Oh no, I mean yes and also no if you’ll please forgive me Professor Headmaster! You two are playing me and Doctor Watson, and Mister Sherlock is cheering for us! Yay!”

  
McGonagall looked at Arthur Shappey. She looked at him intently and moved her head like an owl and a cat and a lioness and almost any human would have sweated but Arthur grinned broadly, incredibly pleased.

  
“Carolyn, dear, you only said Arthur would bring a friend – three of us against a Muggle, even if he is your son? Is that really advisible?”

  
“Teeth-grindingly reluctant as I am to admit it, Minerva, I rather assumed it was going to be the usual us-against-them campaign of destruction. I seem to have been remiss one particular item of information.”

  
“Then you haven’t been paying attention. John Watson was one of our most competent aurors, and a hero in the war.”

  
“There are no heroes in wars,” John said softly, and Sherlock very determinedly continued his renewed study of Carolyn rather than look at him.

  
"My apologies," McGonagall said. "An idiomatic slip of the tongue."

  
"No apology needed, Headmaster. I'm just sorry I couldn't be there with you at the Battle of Hogwarts."

  
"Now, we've been through this, John."

  
"I know, yes. My apologies, Minerva."

  
“But he’s just a – “ began Carolyn.

  
“Yes,” John said calmly. “I’m just a sidekick. Just a mild-mannered doctor. Just a regular bloke wondering where his next cuppa is coming from.” He smiled and some scarlet and copper sparks erupted from the start and end pegs on the croquet lawn.

  
“Quite,” said Carolyn. “And I’m just a little old lady rubbing two sticks together to make an impossible airline fly.” She straightened her green-and-silver silk scarf and the hoops lit up with an extra shine of silver. “Let’s see who’s the most harmless, shall we?”

  
“You really do, though, don’t you,” Sherlock said, musingly. “Make an impossible airline fly.”

  
“Well, you’ve seen GERTI, do you think she could fly without magic? If you hadn’t seen that already you must have been asleep during Muggle Studies.”

  
“Oh, no, I am a Muggle.”

  
Carolyn frowned. “Then how do you know about – “

  
“Significant other exception,” John said.

  
“Oh!” exclaimed Arthur. “Like how you had to tell me when I figured it out, Mum.”

  
“Yes,” Carolyn said coldly while Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Arthur.

  
“You 'figured it out'?”

  
“Oh, yes. There were some things Mum did where the only logical explanation was magic.”

  
“See?” John smiled.

  
“It is _not_ a logical expl-” Sherlock began, and then bit down on the rest of the word and glared at him.

  
“But anyway,” Arthur went on, “it doesn’t matter, does it, that you three are magical and I’m not because you’re not using magic in the match, right? Because that would be Magical Croquet and not Perfectly Normal Croquet, and that would be unfair since I can’t do magic.”

  
“Well, we’re not now, I suppose,” Carolyn sighed.

  
“And incidentally, it’s not three of us against a Muggle,” John said. “I intend to play to win. And Sherlock is cheering for both me and Arthur.”

  
“Besides, with any other Muggle I might have said no, but this is Arthur,” Carolyn said.

  
“Hah, yes,” John said. “Arthur may not be a wizard but I’m fairly certain he is somehow magic.”

  
“Brilliant,” Arthur grinned.

  
McGonagall raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, Watson, if you play croquet like you played quidditch, this might actually get interesting.”

  
Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and hauled him away several paces, stopping abruptly to swing round to face him. “You play _quidditch_ ? You play quidditch and you’ve let me watch you play _rugby_? Why aren’t you letting me watch you play quidditch?”

  
“First of all, it’s not quite as easy to just rustle up some quidditch players for a tussle at the field in the park on a Saturday afternoon. Second of all, did I tell you about quidditch?”

  
“No, you didn’t, and why didn’t you?”

  
“Then how –”

  
“I stole some books from Mycroft.”

  
John pinched the bridge of his nose. “And I don’t need to tell you how important it is that _no one else_ sees those books, do I?”

  
“Of course not. Now, when are you going to play quidditch?”

  
John sighed, not entirely disappointed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  
“Good.” Sherlock stalked back to the others with John following.

 

* *

 

What they missed in the meantime:

  
“‘Actually interesting’, Minerva? Like, say, that time you took thirteen tries to get through fifth hoop?”

  
“The fact that I couldn’t identify the spell you had put on the grass doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

  
“No, but it does mean you can’t contest it, as per our rules.”

  
“Oh, you have your own rules? Brilliant. So now there is also a Mum And Professor Headmaster Croquet as well.”

  
“There has been since before you were born, dear boy.”

  
“Wow. Just like the rules for Perfectly Normal Croquet. For how long have you been playing? And oh! Who’s won the most times?”

  
Even Arthur Shappey faltered under the gazes of two very powerful witches.

  
“Well, that’s – I mean – I’m sure that – oh, could you please stop looking at me like that? Oh, Doctor Watson! Mister Sherlock!”

  
“Quite a bit of an audience turning up, isn’t there?” John said, looking around the edges of the croquet lawn. There had been only a few park benches in place around it, but people were dragging in more, and also spreading picnic blankets. He recognised more than a few faces from Diagon Alley and The Leaky Cauldron, but there were also a lot of Muggles – all subtly under the influence of McGonagall's and Carolyn's Somebody Else's Problem Charm, which would make them disregard and forget any magic they might happen to see.

  
“There usually are, the times when we don’t keep it secret where we’ll be,” Carolyn said.

  
“And some of it might be because there are people who do remember the name John Watson,” McGonagall added.

  
“Please, Professor, do you think anyone would come to watch _me_ play when you …” John’s gaze snagged on a face and he couldn’t make another sound, could feel his pleasant smile draining away.

  
“John?” Sherlock asked, a note of worry in his voice, and he looked where John was looking.

  
A tall, broad man, with unkempt red hair and nearly grizzled red stubble on his scarred but smiling face, was striding towards them. Sherlock placed him at almost exactly the same age as John. And while he hadn’t been able to tell with Carolyn Shappey, he must be learning, because he was certain this man was a wizard.

  
The man came up to them, and judging by his body language, the stride had been meant to turn into a bear hug enveloping John, but at the last second he must have registered the rest of the company and the shock on John’s face, because the hug turned into a strong handshake and a large hand grabbing John’s shoulder.

  
“Dragons bite my tail if it isn’t little big Johnny Watson, all grown up.”

  
John’s face lit up with astonishment, as if he was finally ready to believe his eyes. “Charlie. You really mean to say the dragons haven’t eaten you up yet?”

  
“Not for lack of trying, I’ll give them that.”

  
John shook his head, a surprised smile tugging at his mouth, while Charlie released him and bowed to McGonagall.

  
“Professor.”

  
“Weasley,” she nodded back.

  
Carolyn snorted. “A Weasley. Obviously.”

  
“Wow,” Arthur said, in awe. “What’s a Weasley?”

  
Charlie narrowed his eyes and looked towards McGonagall for guidance.

  
“It’s quite all right,” she said, “these two gentlemen are Muggles but they are aware. May I introduce Carolyn Shappey, who twice won the House Cup for Slytherin; her son Arthur; and this is –”

  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, stepping in front of John and extending his hand. Charlie took it, and after a few seconds his expression changed as Sherlock held on, tightening his grip. He responded accordingly, but Sherlock didn’t show any strain, and his voice was steady.

  
“So you’re the dragon expert. John’s ‘friend’ from school. There aren’t very many dragon experts, as I understand it. I am a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job.”

  
Charlie’s eyebrows went up and he loosened his grip on Sherlock’s hand. “Really? That’s fantastic! What’s that entail? Do you find people and things? How do you do that without magic?”

  
Sherlock’s own grip loosened and for a second he simply looked, nonplussed, at Charlie’s enthusiastic, earnestly curious face. He let go of his hand. “I employ entirely scientific methods. In addition to all the natural sciences I have developed a science of deduction, whereby I reduce possibilities to arrive at the truth based upon the optimal amount of observations.”

  
“That’s amazing! I love Muggle sciences! Dad told us all about them when we were kids, but I think he got a few things just a tad wrong. I don’t suppose I could prevail on you to tell me a bit more?”

  
Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Certainly. I’d be delighted.”

  
“I’m sure these people are ready to begin their game, anyway. You don’t mind if I borrow your Sherlock for a bit, do you John?”

  
John stepped in between them, pulled Sherlock down by his coat collar and kissed him full on the lips. Then he whispered a few words in Sherlock’s ear, let him go and stepped back. Sherlock's face had turned a deep red.

  
“Not at all, go ahead. As you say, we’re about to begin play.”

  
Charlie grinned devilishly and leaned down to whisper in John’s ear. “I won’t get between you, mate. Well, unless you want me to, of course. Right in between you, one on each side. Or perhaps you like to be the one in the middle?” He straightened up and winked at John. “Coming, Sherlock?”

  
“Hm?” Sherlock blinked, coming to. “Oh. Yes. Right.”

  
They walked away towards the benches.

  
“Are you okay, Doctor Watson?”

  
“What? Oh. Arthur.” John let out a breath. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I just … got a little distracted.”

  
“Then perhaps we could begin the match?” Carolyn said. “I’m sure Minerva is impatient to try to get revenge for last year.”

  
“No, no, my dear,” McGonagall said calmly, “I think you’ll find I won last year. This is _your_ revenge match, or your attempt at one, at least.”

  
“Um,” John said. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we should have a referee? Someone impartial.” The two witches looked at him levelly, and Arthur looked nervous. “I don’t mean to imply … anything. Just that now there’s such a big audience and everything, it seems proper.” The two witches’ stony expressions didn’t change. “We would if it were quidditch,” John said.

  
“Fine,” McGonagall said. “Someone impartial, so a Ravenclaw or a Hufflepuff, then. Have you seen anyone suitable in our audience?”

  
“But Mum, you once said I’d be a Hufflepuff.”

  
“Yes, but you’re not, dear.”

  
“But what if they’d know, too?”

  
“That would be fine, because they would be Hufflepuffs.”

  
“What? Oh … if you say so, I suppose.”

  
“You would have made a brilliant Hufflepuff, Arthur.”

  
Arthur’s sunny smile broke out again. “Oh, thank you, Professor Headmaster!”

  
“On the other hand, I think I’ve found the perfect Ravenclaw,” John said.

  
The others looked where he was looking. “Agreed,” McGonagall said.

  
“Merlin’s beard,” Carolyn said. “You cannot be serious.”

  
“Do you think she’d ever be anything but conscientious and fair?”

  
“She’s mad.”

  
“No,” McGonagall settled the matter, “she’s open-minded.” She marched over to one of the picnic blankets, whose occupant jumped up and bowed with a wide smile when she arrived.

  
“Good morning, Professor!”

  
“Good morning, Luna. Do you know the rules of croquet?”

  
“Oh, several of them, Professor. Which kind?”

  
“Well, Perfectly Normal Croquet, apparently.”

  
“Yes, absolutely. And which kind of Perfectly Normal Croquet?”

  
“Ah. Perhaps we should simply let young Arthur go over that. He seems to have the matter quite organised. That is, if you wouldn’t mind being enlisted as our referee for the day?”

  
“I would be very happy to! Shall all four of you be playing by the same set of rules?”

  
“That was how we planned it, yes.”

  
“Then it will be simple. Almost too simple, perhaps, but then I’ve often found that things that one thinks will be too simple will instead be entirely the opposite, when watched carefully.”

  
“Quite. Shall we get started?”

  
“Oh yes, let’s!”

  
* *

 

“Right,” Arthur said. “The rules of Perfectly Normal Croquet. Right. Are you paying attention?”

  
“I am. Are you, Arthur?"

“Well, sort of. I am a bit distracted by your hat, to be quite honest. It’s a very brilliant hat. I’ve seen quite a few brilliant hats in my life, actually I’ve made a lot of them myself, but that is a _brilliant_ hat.”

  
“Thank you!” Luna beamed.

  
“Are the elephants alive?”

  
“No. Well, they’re alive like flowers are alive, in a way, actually. But they’re not live elephants.”

  
“Do they trumpet?”

  
Luna lifted her wand and tapped her hat, and two of the elephants raised their trunks and trumpeted.

  
“Brilliant,” Arthur breathed.

  
“Thank you!”

  
“Could you two _please_ get on with it?”

  
“Sorry Mum! All right, the rules of Perfectly Normal Croquet! Everyone starts at the starting peg. Not all at the same time, though. First the first player starts. When it’s the second player’s turn, the second player starts.”

  
“And then the third player.”

  
“Yes! And then the fourth. But first of all the first player starts. And since the thing is that you get an extra shot if you pass through a hoop, there's a brilliant chance in the beginning that you can get two extra shots if you manage both the first hoops in one go. But that's actually much more difficult than it looks, even though they stand sort of close together.”

  
”Well, rather. You'd have to shoot the ball in an almost straight line!”

  
”That's what I usually try to do, and that's what's really difficult.”

  
John tried to listen to them, just to make sure Arthur's idea of Perfectly Normal Croquet was the same as his own, but he kept getting distracted, his gaze drawn to the bench where Sherlock and Charlie sat. Sherlock was talking animatedly, gesturing with arms and hands, and Charlie was listening raptly, occasionally commenting or asking questions, and they must have been clever interruptions, because Sherlock answered them instead of getting irritated.

  
Charlie wasn't flirting though. John knew flirting Charlie, and this wasn't it: he was genuinely interested in what Sherlock had to say.

  
Of course, flirting would most likely get nowhere with Sherlock, whereas impressed admiration … had certainly made him notice John. Or, had convinced him of John's interest, in another way of looking at it.

  
”Now, if you hit someone else's ball,” Arthur was saying, ”you're allowed to knock them out of position, and then you still have an extra shot left, to get through the hoop. You don't _have_ to knock them out of position, though. There's no rule that says you _have_ to. There's especially no rule that says that you have to knock them away from where they need to be for their own game, so that you can hit them again later and get even more extra shots and it will take them even longer to get back to where they should be, which is how Mum usually plays. And it's allowed in the rules. It's just not completely nice. In Skip And Arthur Croquet, for example, it's not allowed.”

  
”What about if the balls get upset at being knocked together?”

  
”What?”

  
”Well, what if it hurts? Or if those two balls didn't like each other from the beginning, and would have preferred to keep professional distance through the game? Might they get upset with their own players if they deny them that?”

  
”Um. Is this a magic thing, Ms Lovegood?”

  
”I'm not sure. We should probably go and ask the balls.”

  
”Um. Okay, then, if you think that's for the best.”

  
Of course, Charlie had said he wouldn't come between them. (”Unless ...”) John realised he was blushing again and bit his teeth together. Charlie didn't know Sherlock. He wouldn't know that … this … would be far more effective than flirting. John tried to kick himself mentally, but missed. He trusted Sherlock. What they had was special.

  
Yeah, well, being a dragon-taming wizard was pretty special too.

  
”Have some tea, Watson.”

  
John may have stumbled a bit when he turned to McGonagall, and spilled some hot tea when he grabbed for the proffered cup.

  
”Oh. Thanks.”

  
”You should start getting your head in the game. Carolyn doesn't take prisoners.”

  
”And you beat her last year.”

  
”Quite.”

  
John drank of the tea, tried to let it centre him, focus him for the game. Just like before a quidditch match. Or before going out onto the London streets with Sherlock. He looked up at their audience, pointedly not looking at one certain bench.

  
”Quite a turnout, isn't it?”

  
”Word travels faster than ever these days,” McGonagall said, and John didn't bring up the obvious fact that she would love it if all these people saw her win.

  
”But hey, that guy?” John lowered his voice and indicated a spectator very discreetly with his chin. ”Wasn't he a Death Eater?! And isn't that – ”

  
”Yes, he was, and yes, that is Hermione Granger he is with. He did his time in Azkaban, and afterwards, she seems to have … reformed him. The Ministry obviously keeps a close eye on all the Death Eaters –”

  
”Former Death Eaters, Minerva dear.”

  
”Of course, Carolyn; my apologies. And he stays on the straight and narrow. Volunteers at St Mungo's every weekend, and otherwise Mr Scabior works as Department Head Granger's personal assistant.”

  
”Considering how bloody many Death Eaters there were in the end,” Carolyn said, ”it was damned obvious not all of them could be true believers.”

  
”They have his portrait, and others like him, in the Slytherin common room,” McGonagall nodded.

  
”Those two certainly do seem affectionate,” John said, and Carolyn scoffed.

  
”Young people.”

  
”Oh look, Carolyn dear, there's Hercules.”

  
” _What?!_ ”

  
She spun around and John looked to see a man pausing from setting up his picnic blanket to wave at them.

  
”Merlin's _beard_!” Carolyn moaned. ”That basket will be full of his horrible vegetables, too! It'll utterly jinx my game! How did he know to come here?”

  
”I haven't the faintest, dear,” McGonagall said.

  
”Aren't you going to go and welcome him and thank him for coming?” John smiled.

  
”No, I'm not, and why is he even unpacking that much food, that's … oh no. Now what are _those_ two idiots doing here?”

  
”Mum, look, it's Skip and Douglas! I asked them if they would come and cheer for me too, and for you of course, and for Doctor Watson and Professor Headmaster! I was a bit worried though since they were late, but maybe they drove in Skip's van and it had to stop and take a little breather like it needs to sometimes.”

  
”No, Arthur,” John said, ”I actually think it's more likely Douglas' car broke down and Martin had to pick him up in his van. Notice the rare proud stride of Captain Crieff and the Richardsonian attempt to hide dismay at failure, imperfect as it doesn't get much practice?”

  
”Oh, wow, I think you might be right, Doctor Watson.”

  
”The science of deduction rubs off eventually I guess,” John said, still not looking at Sherlock and Charlie.

  
”That would be brilliant! And what's also brilliant is that me and Ms Lovegood have finally finished going over the rules, so if everyone's ready, we can start drawing lots over who's going to start!”

 

* *

 

Luna held out four slim wooden sticks, and they all picked one each. The tips of the sticks had different colours, and McGonagall got red, Arthur yellow, Carolyn blue and John green.

  
”Ah, so I start,” McGonagall said. ”Don't worry, if I play through the entire course in my first round, I'll still have to wait one round for you lot to get out on the lawn so I can roquet you as freebooter before I win. So you will get to play a little, at least.”

  
”Very generous, Minerva. That's how I beat you four years ago, if I remember correctly.”

  
”And I get to start last, to chase after all of you, all lined up for me,” John said. ”How nice.” He sensed his smile was something feral, predatory, as he accepted his mallet from Luna, and hefted it, judging its weight and balance – and this time he did look up towards that certain bench, and immediately met Sherlock's eyes. They were riveted to him, pupils huge and dark. Sherlock's gaze slowly travelled down to the mallet, and then even slower up his body again, back to his face. John saw the movement in the long, pale, strong neck as Sherlock swallowed, and then, solemnly, nodded. John showed some more teeth and nodded back, adding a wink on a whim. Sherlock settled into stillness on his bench and John knew he had his audience's full attention. Charlie seemed slightly cut adrift, but accepted his fate and sat back beside Sherlock to watch the game.

  
Carolyn swung her mallet in a circle. ”Right, then. Shall we get on with it?” She made the immediately regretted mistake of looking over to that certain picnic blanket, whereupon Hercules and Douglas raised their glasses to her and promptly – and loudly – _burst into opera_.

 

”La donna è mobile, Qual piuma al vento! ...”

 

“Morgana's beard,” Carolyn groaned. “May I please turn them into frogs? Just for a little bit? A year or two?”

  
“No, you may not,” McGonagall decided.

  
“No turning anyone into anything in Perfectly Normal Croquet, please,” Arthur said, looking a little worried.

Luna handed him his mallet. “Certainly not as part of the game, at least,” she ruled.

  
Carolyn treated them all to her very best very-put-upon sigh and went to wait behind the starting peg.

  
Luna put the red ball into place in front of the starting peg and Professor McGonagall walked up to it, steadied her hold on her mallet, and played the first shot.

 

* *

 

McGonagall made it through the first two hoops on one stroke, and used her two extra shots to go through third hoop in such a way that it lined her up to easily breeze through the Crown, in the centre of the lawn, on the next extra shot. The two shots earned got her through sixth hoop, but at an angle that left the pair of seventh and eighth hoops a nearly impossible attempt. Instead she used her last extra shot to get into position. Not into a perfect position to clear the hoops when next it was her turn, but no one doubted the position was well planned.

  
Arthur aimed for quite a while and then carefully struck his yellow ball. It trundled slowly through first hoop and stopped at an off angle in front of second. Arthur jumped up and punched the air.

  
“Yes! One hoop!” He smiled broadly as he walked the few steps up to his ball, but then stuck his tongue between his lips, concentrated, and aimed. And aimed.

  
“While we're young, dear,” Carolyn sighed.

  
Arthur looked up. “Oh. Yes. Sorry, Mum. But – now you made me lose my concentration and I'm going to have to aim again.”

  
“No disturbing other players while they're aiming, please,” Luna said.

  
“In that case, can we use a chess clock? To perhaps limit his aiming to ten minutes per shot?”

  
“Can all contestants agree on ten minutes?” the referee asked.

  
Carolyn rolled her eyes but the others agreed; Arthur after he'd had a good think on it. Luna waved her wand and said:

  
“Clepsydra scacci!”

  
Instantly a semi-transparent board set up for wizard's chess appeared floating above the lawn, a few feet from Luna and slightly above waist height. The pieces looked towards her, expectantly.

“The pieces will replay the famous Gasparyan vs Philidor game, which as you all know ended in stalemate in exactly ten minutes. The pieces will start playing the moment a ball comes to a stop, but I'll start it manually this time for you, Arthur.” She raised her wand. “Ready?”

 

Arthur looked at her, looked at the others, looked around the field and looked back at Luna. “I'm sorry, but – what?”

  
“Which what?”

  
“Witch what??”

“No no, which what.”

  
“Oh, I see. I meant, what are you talking about, please?”

  
“The chess board.”

  
Arthur smiled politely and nodded. “All right. Which chessboard? As in 'what chessboard would that be', that is.”

  
Luna gestured towards it. “The one right –” and then she swung right back to Arthur. “Oh, I'm so sorry! I actually forgot. Just a second, I'll fix it so you see it.”

  
She gestured her wand towards Arthur and then towards the chess board while muttering a few words. Arthur followed the movement of the wand, and from one second to another, he saw the board.

  
It was probably over a minute before he even moved. He might have breathed during that time, but if you asked him, he wouldn't be able to say. But he knew that he eventually, very regretfully, breathed out slowly, because he was almost – _almost –_ certain that that would make the wonderful thing go away.

  
It didn't.

  
The wonderful thing was still there – dreamy like a cloud, but definitely a chess board hovering in the air, populated by small living chess pieces, who were all staying in their squares but were chatting, arguing, warming up, reading, rocking in place or watching the audience. One of the pawns noticed him looking and waved enthusiastically, smiling. Arthur raised a hand and waved back, and the pawn didn't disappear but got its friends to wave to him too.

  
“The Muggles might notice him noticing, though,” Carolyn said patiently, employing her Arthur-Specific Patience.

  
“No, I put his reactions under the Somebody Else's Problem Charm along with the magic,” Luna said, her smile at watching Arthur never fading.

  
“And I might have added to that,” John said at the same time as McGonagall said:

  
“So did I.”

  
“Oh, fine, I did too,” Carolyn groused. “But this is turning into an even lengthier delay. Arthur, my darling son, it's Wizard's Chess. Of course the pieces move.”

  
“Of course,” Arthur breathed, and about two thirds of the pawns were now waving at him and inviting him to come play.

  
“We can play a game after the match, if you'd like?” Luna said and Arthur nodded, slowly tearing his eyes away from the chess pieces up to her.

  
“I would like that, thank you.”

  
“Just so you know, I have a _lot_ of different sets of chess rules.”

  
“So do I! Oh wow! We could compare them and then agree on one set of rules for one game and then another for the next one!”

  
Luna nodded, interested. “We could make a tournament.”

  
“Brilliant!”

  
“Good,” said McGonagall. “Now, perhaps we could for the moment move on with the croquet?”

  
“Right,” Luna said.

  
“Right,” Arthur said.

  
“I'll start the chess game and you'll start aiming,” Luna went on. “Ready?”

  
“Probably not, but please go ahead.”

  
Luna tapped the chess board and one of the pieces moved. Arthur watched, eyes growing ever larger, as more and more pieces moved.

  
“Mate,” John said, “the time is ticking and you've still got to aim and shoot. You can watch it while it times the rest of us, too.”

  
“Right. Yes.” Arthur tore his eyes away and hunched over his ball again, concentrating at aiming. When he finally struck, he looked up at once to see the chess pieces freeze in place. As the ball rolled they hurried back to the intial position, and when they started moving again he looked down to see where his ball had stopped.

  
It had gone through second hoop, and so Arthur danced a happy little hoop-clearing dance. He wouldn't be able to get through third hoop from there, though, so he used his extra shot to place the ball in a sort-of straight line from it, hoping to go through in his next round.

  
Carolyn cleared both of the first hoops in one stroke. She took up position behind the ball again, and aimed for long enough that she got Arthur to look away from the chess board.

  
“Mum! You're aiming at me!”

  
“Not quite, Arthur.”

  
“You know you won't get any extra shots for it, right? Because I haven't gone through third hoop yet?”

  
“I know,” Carolyn said calmly.

  
She struck the ball and it came to a stop just behind Arthur's. Then she lined up again, struck, and knocked both balls through the hoop.

  
“Oh, thanks, Mum! That was very nice of you!”

  
“Wasn't it just? Because now that you're through third hoop, I get two extra shots when I hit you.”

  
She struck and promptly hit Arthur's ball again.

  
“... Oh,” he said.

  
Carolyn used her first extra shot to croquet Arthur's ball far off towards seventh and eighth hoops and the turning peg, and was left at an angle which managed to get her through the Crown on her last shot. It had not, however, been the best angle, so she used up her next two extra shots to get into position for sixth hoop.

  
John took a stance behind his ball and surveyed the lawn for a short while before knocking through the first two hoops. As he walked to catch up he briefly spelled the handle of his mallet to become a reflective surface, and watched over his shoulder just to confirm that, yes, he had the entirety of Sherlock's complete attention. As well as Charlie's, but hey, who's counting.

  
He most certainly did not wiggle his butt as he aimed again, and he did not strut towards third hoop to clear it on his second extra shot. And he was not showing off in the least, he had meant to strike the ball that hard, with no good angle at all towards the Crown.

  
Because … because there was Carolyn's ball, right there. He struck and hit it. And just to let Arthur watch the chess game for a while he strode around, considering his options. Still not strutting.

  
In the end he croqueted Carolyn's ball off towards ninth hoop and was, himself, left with an angle that let him curve his ball through the Crown. With millimeters to spare and in a less than optimal direction, but valid.

 

“And now he's asking himself,” Carolyn said, “did he mean to put me here to hit again now, or does he think he can get all the way to ninth without letting everyone else getting a round in. If it's the former, he really should have croqueted my ball to a better position. If it's the latter, he has quite a challenging route up to sixth.”

  
A voice yelled from the audience: “Gryffindor, Gryffindor, you're all really dreadful, and your girlfriends are all unfulfilled and alienated!”

  
They looked up to see Department Head Granger trying to silence her boyfriend, slightly hampered by the fact that she was giggling helplessly as she did so.

  
“His boyfriend doesn't have any complaints, though,” Sherlock said loudly but plainly, without looking up from his intense study of the game, looking satisfyingly mysterious and cool with his cheekbones and his collar turned up.

  
John didn't bother to hide his smile and did manage to get through sixth hoop, although at another bad angle. He stepped behind his ball and eyed McGonagall's.

  
“You'd better hit me at first attempt and then run far and run fast, Watson,” she said.

  
“All right,” John said, aimed, struck, and missed the red ball by half an inch.

  
“Well, now,” McGonagall said, and twirled her mallet just a little bit before striking and hitting John's ball.

 

* *

 

Minerva McGonagall was thoroughly enjoying her day. A new level of challenge and unpredictability was added to the annual game by the predictable skill and determination of John Watson. Naturally, he was nowhere near the level of experience she and Carolyn had reached, but his level of in-game ruthlessness was not as far behind.

  
At least, not compared to the moderate amount she and Carolyn had let him see so far. According to her estimate, two rounds from now both of them would be in perfect positions to show him exactly how croquet was supposed to be played.

  
That was, of course, unless the consummately unpredictable element of the match intervened. Arthur Shappey was like a force of wild magic sometimes, able to achieve moves and shots she would not have deemed strictly possible. She considered again the idea, discussed at Hogwarts for the last decade, of admitting a very small, very select collection of Muggles as combination lay professors and lay students – if not to the school itself, then to one or another form of annex at Hogsmeade – for an opportunity for Muggles and magic folk to learn from each other. She imagined both her students and her teachers could learn things from Arthur they could learn from no one else in the world. And perhaps she should also consider Watson's Holmes, if such an endeavour should ever come to pass.

 

* *

 

For as long as it had been apparent the three top players were nearly evenly matched, Sherlock had been sitting on the edge of his seat, muttering under his breath.

  
“No, go after the _red_ one here.” “Curve farther to the _left_ !” “Do you have a strategy at all or are you doing this only to _annoy_ me?”

  
Before long he had taken to texting his comments to John while muttering them. John looked at the first one, rolled his eyes and put his phone away without answering, and, worse, without obeying. He also looked at the second one, glared at Sherlock, and put his phone away again. He ignored the next three texts, and when the next five came in rapid succession he asked the other players to please excuse him and marched off towards the bench where Sherlock and Charlie was sitting.

  
“Charlie, mate,” he said, not even glancing at Sherlock and holding out his phone, “do you think you could hold on to this for me? It's being very distracting.”

  
“'Course,” Charlie said.

  
“It's being very helpful,” Sherlock quarrelled, “or at least it would be if you would just do as I say!”

  
“This morning, you didn't know the first thing about croquet,” John reminded him, “whereas I have been playing my whole life.”

  
“For heaven's sakes, what's to know? The rules are perfectly simple, and now that I know them and have seen how the others play it's perfectly obvious what you should be doing, and yet you're not _doing_ it. Are you deliberately playing to lose?”

  
John schooled his face to be perfectly calm, which made Sherlock close his mouth and back away a little.

  
“Ah, but here's the thing, Sherlock. You _haven't_ seen how the others play. Not Carolyn and Minerva. They've shown you, at a guess, between one fourth and one tenth of what they're capable of.”

  
Sherlock glanced towards the lawn and then back to John's face. “Of course I've taken in a certain amount of...” John shook his head and Sherlock fell quiet.

  
“On the other hand,” Charlie said, “you've seen only about a tenth of what John is capable of, too.”

  
John smiled a crooked smile. “Well. Between one fourth and one tenth.”

  
Sherlock took a slow breath and gingerly settled back on the bench. “All right,” he said. “Show me.”

  
John grinned and nodded once. “Watch me,” he said. Then he turned and strode back out onto the lawn.

 

* *

 

Everyone was playing _brilliantly_. Arthur had always known his Mum was scarily good at croquet, but when she played people as good as Professor Headmaster and Doctor Watson, she was even better, and sometimes he could only stare at the things they did. He actually wondered for just a second if any one of them were using magic, and then he forced himself to admit to himself that he had wondered that and told himself to feel very ashamed. Because he knew that Luna would stop them right away if they did. And they would listen: it was, in fact, brilliant how both Mum and Professor Headmaster did exactly as Luna said, when Luna ruled whether a ball had hit another ball or had made it through a hoop. They even did as Luna said when Luna said they had to take a little break to see if that was something called a Silver Slippered Warbler that had landed in a tree beside the croquet lawn. (It wasn't though, apparently; it was some other, more common kind of warbler.)

  
Then he thought that it was a bit unusual that he was already thinking of Luna as Luna after having known Luna for such a short while, but at the same time it felt as if he had known Luna forever. And she had a really nice name.

  
What was more, he suspected that some of the others took their time aiming sometimes only so that he could have a good look at the chess game, but he didn't say anything about it, because if they were, he really didn't mind and didn't want them to get a bit self-conscious and stop.

  
Anyway, what he was thinking was that everyone was playing brilliantly. The other three had just finished the whole course _and_ knocked their balls across half the lawn to become freebooters _all_ of them at the _same_ time, which was brilliant, and scary for everyone, but while they were doing that, he himself, Arthur, aeroplane steward Arthur Shappey, had made it all the way to the turning peg and had actually _hit_ the turning peg and was officially on the second half of the course without anyone else having won yet and that must be a record of some kind. He wished he, or someone, had kept some sort of record of all the croquet matches he had ever played so that he could double check and then put this one right at the top.

 

* *

 

“This is a very funny situation,” Luna said with a very serious face. “Three freebooters, who all have to hit each other while staying out of each other's ways so they won't themselves be hit.”

  
“They need to hit me, as well, before they can win,” Arthur said.

  
“Yes, and they seem just as wary of that as of approaching each other.”

  
“Well, if one of them goes after me, the others will know where to go to get them.”

  
“If they dare risk it.”

  
“You're right, it is very funny to watch them trying to hide and attack and get in good positions all at once.”

  
“Who knows, maybe you'll have time to finish the course while they're dithering.”

  
The other three turned to look sternly at them, and Arthur took a step back. “Ooh, I wouldn't say they're dithering. I'm sure they have completely clever plans. As to the other thing, I'm still not very good at going through the hoops.”

  
“You're getting better, though. Ah, and now it's your turn. I'll let you aim.”

  
Luna backed away a few steps, the chess board floating after her, and Arthur took a deep breath and aimed. He told himself not to look at the chess game and aimed some more. Then he struck the ball – and went through the hoop! He danced around to celebrate and the audience applauded! Then he used his extra shot to actually get into a not too bad position to maybe possibly make it through the Crown next shot if he was really lucky and if no one hit him and knocked him out of place. This game was _brilliant_.

 

* *

 

Eventually, McGonagall, Carolyn and John all simultaneously decided that they had come to the point where they had lulled the other two into believing they knew their strategy, and so they instead let loose their real strategies.

  
For two rounds everything was chaos, and at the end of that, all three of them had hit everyone and only had to hit the end peg to win – and Arthur had completed the course and knocked his ball over half the court in _one_ try, and thus was the last to become freebooter.

  
It was Arthur's turn. Douglas and Hercules burst into song to cheer him on, or rather, they burst into hum, to favour him with the Triumphal March from Verdi's Aida.

  
“Oh, I know this one!” said Arthur. “Pam paaa, pam pam pam paa paa paa, pam pam pam paaa, paa paa!”

  
He aimed, and struck, and hit McGonagall's ball.

  
“Gloria all' Egitto!” Douglas and Hercules burst out in celebration.

  
Arthur stared, and slowly walked after his ball. He aimed again, and struck, and hit John's ball.

  
“What is, in fact, going on here?” asked Carolyn, and Arthur aimed, and struck, and hit her ball.

  
“Brilliant!” exclaimed Luna. “Now you only have to hit the end peg!”

  
“Yes ...” Arthur said. The end peg was over ten metres away. He aimed, and struck, and missed.

  
“Right,” Carolyn said. “My turn, I believe.”

 

* *

 

Minerva and Carolyn used a perfectly harmless distraction charm on the cheering masses so that the crowd celebrated the very well-played match on one half of the lawn, while the very well deserving witches sat back in two comfortable chairs on the more private half of the lawn, cups of tea and glasses of something slightly stronger within easy reach.

  
“I told you I'd get my revenge.”

  
“And next year I'll have mine.”

  
“Well, you can try.”

 

* *

 

“Actually, I've been developing a croquet game for rats, as well.”

  
“That's _brilliant_! And how do the rats feel about it?”

  
“My colony of Slovenian Mountain Rats with whom I've been practicing are really taking to it!”

  
“I'd love to watch that some time if I could. That is, you know, if you want to. And unless the rats would be too shy to show me.”

  
“As long as they get to say hello to you first, I think you'll be fine. They're not shy, but they are sometimes a little proud and a bit selective.”

  
“Oh.”

  
“Well, they know that that's not entirely nice, because I've been trying to talk them out of it. Arthur? What's wrong?”

  
“No, Luna, it's fine, it's nothing, it's just … that people who are a bit selective and proud don't usually select me.”

  
“But they're not people, they're rats, see? So that's good.” Arthur nodded but didn't look up and Luna added: “And anyway, if anyone, human or rat, had the chance to select you and didn't, they'd be really stupid.”

 

“Do ...”

  
“What?”

  
“Do you really mean that?”

  
“Why else would I say it?”

  
“Do you like Toblerones?”

  
“I _love_ them! They're maybe my favourite Muggle candy.”

  
“Would you like to go and get some and then sit somewhere and eat them maybe perhaps or not perhaps possibly.”

  
“I also like tea.”

  
“We … could get tea, instead. Or as well. Or ...”

  
“No! I mean, yes. Maybe they go together. Or not. We won't know until we try.”

  
“So. A Toblerone experiment.”

  
“Under scientific circumstances.”“Which requires several data points.”

  
“We'd better get started.”

 

* *

 

Sherlock had dragged John off by his sleeve as soon as the game was finished, and the second they found a hidden spot John had apparated them back to Baker Street. Now, a long time later, they lay spent, sated, drowsy and soft in their bed, breaths evening out, hardly a single muscle wanting to move.

  
“So. Quidditch?”

  
“Oh, fucking definitely. If this is what I get for playing croquet, I'll ring Charlie first thing tomorrow to set up a match. A weekly match. Er. Or maybe fortnightly.”

  
“And is that the only thing you'll ask him?”

  
John stretched, mellowly, languidly, and then he rolled on top of Sherlock, steel back in his spine and his muscles, the purr in his voice turning into a growl. “Do you want me to ask him something else?”

  
Sherlock let his hands wander over John's back, looked into his eyes and thought. “Maybe,” he said finally.

John grinned. “Okay. Then maybe.” Then he kissed him.


End file.
